


Cashmere

by Blu3fairy



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Belts, Bondage, Choking, Comfort, Holodeck Character, Holodecks/Holosuites, Inadequate preparation for Anal Sex, James Bond References, M/M, Restraints, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Safewords, Slapping, Spanking, snot/semen/drool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blu3fairy/pseuds/Blu3fairy
Summary: Bashir and Garak revisit the holodeck for another spy adventure. Garak learns what a safeword is.





	1. Julian Bashir, Secret Agent

**Author's Note:**

> This begins shortly after Our Man Bashir. 
> 
> This will likely be the only chapter that does not contain explicit violent sex - there will be nothing non-consensual and I'm trying to cover all of the content in the tags, but if rough sex is not your thing probably don't read this story. 
> 
> Constructive criticism (including grammar/spelling) is welcome.

 

_Dr. Julian Bashir_ : Lunch tomorrow? 

_Garak_ : Of course. But, why don't we have it at your place, in Hong Kong? Unless, of course, this was your last mission. 

_Dr. Julian Bashir_ : Oh, I think it's safe to say that Julian Bashir, secret agent... will return. 

 

————————————————————

 

 

Part of the appeal of the holodeck for Bashir is that fighting fictional evil is black and white. There is no confusion or ambiguity and no difficult decisions to make. Just some fun, some blowing off of steam and occasionally a little release when that’s what he needs. So, he was acutely irritated when a particularly puzzling part of his life, a massive gray area of libidinous tailor, crashed his play time. The man had been flirting with him incessantly since they had first met. Though Bashir enjoyed the attention and the company, he found the advances of the mysterious ‘tailor’ confusing in more than one way.

Garak was more or less the last person that he had wanted along on his previous holodeck adventure when he was specifically looking for alone time or at least some company whose motivations and honesty he didn’t have to worry about questioning. The way things turned out, surrounded by holographic renderings of his colleagues and by real danger, he was grateful to have one other actual person at his side even if Garak was not always strictly helpful. Admittedly, he was initially a little embarrassed that Garak had glimpsed his fantasy world without an invitation, but at the same time he would have liked his odd friend to have seen the program functioning as intended so that Garak might see the appeal that it held for Bashir. When he agreed to allow Garak to join him on his next mission, he meant it and was looking forward to it.

It was not to be the next day when he and Garak got around to revisiting his spy program. In fact, it had been almost two weeks. They had talked about it over the two lunches that they’d shared in the intervening time, but setting aside an entire evening for what he has in mind is a different matter. Felix’s programs are extremely flexible. They offer a variety of plots which could adapt to be highly replayable. Because any of the holographic characters can be swapped out for real life players, the experience does not necessarily have to be cooperative. Bashir was excited at the prospect of playing against another person rather than a mindless program. That person being a very clever Cardassian with real life clandestine experience only added to his anticipation.

He walks up the stairs with Garak, wearing one set of new clothing designed for the evening and holding another neatly tucked under his arm. Garak is similarly dressed, although Bashir notes that he has adapted the style to rest lower across his shoulders, exposing his neck ridges much more than the original pattern would have allowed. The effect is interesting.

“I have been doing some research since our little adventure the other day and I think I have some insight in to the genre,” Garak tells him. 

“Oh?” Bashir smiles indulgently.

“Yes, it’s really not about spies or political intrigue, is it? It’s melodrama and fantasy fulfillment. There’s a whole subset of Cardassian literature dedicated to similar themes. I’ve never recommended any of it to you because, frankly, it’s complete garbage”. Bashir turns to him, eyebrows slightly raised. Garak raises his hands in mock defense, “Well, it’s not as if this is supposed to be high art, is it? It _is_ a game, after all”

“Exactly. It’s a game. Have fun with it. You were born to play the villain in a melodrama.” Garak cocks his head stiffly, feigning offense.

They reach the holodeck doors and Garak gestures for Bashir to precede him. Once they enter, the doors close, the scene fades in to view, walls appearing between the two men as each of them begin their separate introductions. Bashir is left to his mission briefing at MI6 headquarters while Garak receives an “update” on his character 'Korin’s' grand plot from one of his underlings in a garishly furnished office.

————

While initially pleased to be invited along, Garak finds himself becoming irritated with the way this story is playing out. For one thing, the grand manor that he is supposed to inhabit and his rooms by the race track where much of the story unfolds are completely hideous. It was all overly bright and floral and somehow every bit of trim was gilded. Even the furniture did not escape this treatment. He was amazed that the decor managed to be even more offensive than the settings he was exposed to during the last 'spy' adventure.

And then there was the clothing. The women seemed to wear the most ill fitting and strangely conceived outfits, some of which seemed anachronistic to his eye with his admittedly limited knowledge of human fashion history. He conceded that some of the men’s clothing was actually quite beautiful. He particularly admired the figure that Bashir presented, when they finally crossed paths, in the gray three piece suit that Garak had created for him. The tuxedo that Bashir donned later had looked less interesting on Garak’s dummy, but on Bashir the white set off his skin and enhanced its sheen in the sunlight.

He had the bitter thought that he was brought along more to cajole him in to creations for multiple costume changes than for his company. In fact, the two of them seemed to be playing out the story line almost entirely independently. They had limited interaction as they each worked at the task of investigating the other’s character. The story requires Bashir to go ‘under cover’ at the race track to find out what Korin’s evil plot is while Korin is supposed to ‘discover’ Bashir’s true identity as a secret agent.

Garak reflected that the Chief or another of Bashir’s colleagues would probably be playing the sidekick role rather than the adversary had they been the ones invited along. Additionally,Bashir seemed to spend more time chatting up the female characters than forwarding the plot.

Garak suspected that his own improbably named and overly made up sidekick Payday is supposed to be there for his own pleasure. He has no patience for this irrelevant and hollow side plot, lovely though the woman is. He would be more interested in escorting her off of the holodeck and to his shop to get properly outfitted than he would be indulging in some fictitious intimacy.

Garak regains his focus on the “game” as there is some actual action at the racetrack. He is backed in to a confrontation with some of the other characters. It has been revealed to him, with little attempt at subtlety that his character is meant to be a former agent of another nation’s ‘spy’ organization who has gone rogue to make himself wealthy. Confronted by current agents of the organization, he is meant to face off with them. Another side plot line that seems to do little to further the main story line.

“No one ever leaves the KGB”, he is informed by one of his holographic adversaries. Garak’s eyes narrow and his lip curls unhappily at that. He knows that Bashir only ever plays the spy hero and probably would not have realized how close to home the villian’s plot might hit for Garak. Still, his irritation grows and he starts wondering just how much longer they are going to be immersed in this program. A glass of kanar and a decent book in the quiet of his quarters would have made for a better evening.

—————

At last, ‘Korin’ has managed to expose Bashir’s identify and to engage his character’s underlings to capture the spy.

Korin’s men have pursued Bashir from the outside track back in to the manor and have managed to corner him.

Garak strides down the hall, purposeful, but unhurried. Bashir gasps for breath, winded. He stops struggling against the large henchman that have him held by either arm and they drop their grip as their boss approaches. Finally, the two men are face to face and Garak relishes the opportunity to take the doctor down a notch from behind the veneer of his character.

“Really, Bashir, you disappoint me. I thought that you would present more of a challenge. That I’d get more of a…” he steps closer and breathes the word in to Bashir’s face “chase”

Bashir straightens, a smug grin on his face. “Oh, I would hate to let you down, Korin.”

“Mark my words, you will regret your deception. “

“I somehow doubt that. “ Bashir busies himself straightening his bow tie.

Garak tries to keep his annoyance at bay, but he has had just about enough of this program and it’s ridiculous premise. Were he to capture an enemy of the Obsidian order he would not be wasting time with banter, he steps forward and snarls, “trying to insert yourself in to my world. Did you think I wouldn’t find out who you really are?”

Bashir responds with a sneer, “You are not nearly as clever as you believe, _Comrad_.”

Garak lunges toward Bashir and strikes him across the face with his open hand. Both men freeze, widened eyes locked on each other.

Bashir’s reaction is immediate, physiological and intense. He turns away slightly, surprised at Garak and at himself, and tugs at his jacket hoping the evidence of his arousal is not visible. Garak, noticing nothing but the silence, seems to shrink. His eyes widen further yet and he steps backward. “Please, allow me to apologize, Doctor. I got a little…carried away”

“Oh, it’s….” Bashir takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly.

“Really,” Garak is eying the side of Bashir’s face which has started to redden where he had been struck. “I think that the role of the villain might not be for me, after all. I should not have come along. Computer, “ he calls out.

Bashir holds up his hands. “No, wait” He says softly. Garak blinks and watches him with puzzled interest. His doctor friend is looking intently at the floor and seems to be debating internally hands still hovering in the air. Having settled something, he looks up in to Garak’s eyes. He steps forward to close the gap between them and stops slightly to the side of his companion, shoulders almost making contact.

“Garak, “ his voice is still quiet, but has taken on an edge that is unfamiliar to Garak. It causes an odd flutter in his stomach.

“Doctor?”, he turns his head in that stiff way of his, looking with curiosity at Bashir.

“Are you familiar…..” Bashir takes another breath and dives in “with the concept of a safeword”

“A…..no, Doctor, I’m afraid I am not”

“Well, it’s something that people sometimes establish when they want to,” he pauses and inclines his head to emphasize the next word “ _play_ games that might get a little dangerous or painful. They agree upon a word, something that would not be said in general conversation or accidentally come out under stress. Something like,“ Bashir runs his hand across the forearm of Garak’s jacket, pinches a bit of the fabric and gives it a little pull, “cashmere.”

Garak’s mouth twists in confusion, “Cashmere?” He looks down at Bashir’s hand, “I don’t….”

“You see, Garak, while we play our game, if you should choose to lay your hands on me, to _do_ things to me” he leans in and addresses this in a whisper to Garak’s ear “I can say _no_. _Stop_.” He takes a step back and looks directly in to the tailor’s eyes, “ _Please, Garak, don’t_. And you may continue to do as you wish. It’s part of the game. but, when I say…”

Garak’s eyes had grown wide”…..cashmere”

“Right. When I say _cashmere_ , you have to stop. No matter what, I have to trust that you’re going to stop. But until I do, you can carry on and do whatever comes naturally to you. You don’t have to worry that it’s gone too far.”

Garak stares, his lips parting in shock while he struggles to process this. “So, I have to stop if you say this ‘safe’ word” Bashir nods, “and is that the only rule to this….game?”

“Well, that and you have to make sure that I’m able to breath so that I have the option of saying it” Bashir absently runs his hand across his own neck and Garak’s eyes glaze over at the implication. “So?”

“So….” Garak slowly regains his focus on Bashir’s face.

“Are we agreed? The game continues with the…ah…updated rules?” Bashir fixes Garak with a smile, soft and deceptively guileless.

Garak smiles back, inclining his head with a subtle bow, “Oh, _yes_ , Doctor. I can agree to that”

“Well, then,” Bashir steps back several feet and raises his voice dramatically, “I suggest you try not to underestimate me next time” Garak blinks, a bit lost ” _Korin_.” Bashir steps back suddenly to throw an elbow to the face of one of the henchmen, whose presence Garak had completely forgotten, and smoothly spins around to punch the other. He then rushes forward and cuts sideways through an open door leading outside where somehow there is a horse standing idle. Garak barely registers the sound of hooves galloping away.

Garak stands still for several more moments. He shakes his head, stretches his arms out, and blinks at the hideous carpet a few times before straightening up and and fixing his henchmen with a glare. “Well, what are you waiting for?!” He screams. “After him!”

 

————


	2. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashir and Garak's holodeck game reaches its climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags are actually getting some use in this chapter. 
> 
> Again, everything in this story is and will be consensual, but if rough sex is not your thing, you should probably pass. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know if there are errors or things that don't make sense.

\----- 

 

Garak is seething, even more frustrated than he had been earlier in the evening. Time is running out. He swears he was close to achieving his end game goal, incidentally having his men capture a certain spy in the process. His character’s evil plot was coming to fruition. Yet, somehow Bashir escapes the room where he had been confined. ‘Korin’ and his men fire after him as he flees, yet every bullet somehow misses. However the holographic henchmen may be programed, Garak knows he is a better shot than that, no matter the weapon. Of course, the game is weighted in favor of the ‘good’ guys. Bashir, spy extraordinaire, is meant to win.

It is time to change the script. “Computer. Console access.”

 

———

 

Bashir stealthily enters the manor, distracted momentarily by the difference in decor from the last time he was here. Bright and Victorian seems to have been replaced by dark wood trim and rich maroon tones. Suddenly, he is surrounded by Korin’s people, including Payday who he notes is no longer wearing her trademark bright makeup and is dressed in a lovely and practical pant suit, perfectly tailored. Payday grabs him by an arm while one of the men takes the other. They are impossibly strong, holding him firmly. It’s not tight enough to hurt, but he finds that there is no point in struggling. In a quick motion, he is divested of his jacket and dragged in to the next room where he finds himself lying on his back on a bed, hands bound over his head, feet tethered to something out of view. Garak strides casually in to the room, wearing his most solicitous customer service smile.

“Comfortable, Bashir?” Bashir has no response. Garak waves a hand to the room. “Leave us”. The men exit.

Payday places a hand on Garak’s shoulder, “I’ll be right outside.” Garak ignores her completely, eyes locked on his captive. She saunters out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As Garak approaches Bashir, neither man breaks eye contact. Garak easily hides his uncertainty behind his obsequious smile, but he is given pause now that he has Bashir laid out in front of him, watching him. Those eyes have captivated him since he first saw the younger man nearly four years ago. He has spent so many lunches catching them, leaning in to hold their gaze, testing the limits of Bashir’s comfort. It’s always given him a bit of a thrill, seeing how far he can go and how blatant he can be, sure he would scare the handsome doctor away permanently if his hunger was too evident. He never thought it would go beyond that held gaze, beyond trying to memorize those perfect features and the soft smile that he can sometimes coax to recall later when he is cold and alone in his quarters.

Now that insinuation and entendre have been answered with an outright proposition it feels unreal. He reaches out and grasps Bashir gently by the chin, tilting his delicate neck to the side and then running an admiring finger down it. He hesitates to touch him further, letting his eyes take in the slim form beneath the well fitted shirt. As his gaze drifts further down he sees that Bashir is hard and straining against his snugly tailored pants. Uncertainty evaporates and he is on the bed straddling Bashir, hip grinding against hip, mouth against neck, first just breathing in the scent of the other, then lips parted, then teeth bared and scraping across skin, golden soft and smooth. Bashir writhes beneath him. His range of movement is limited, but he strains upwards seeking what friction he can against Garak’s answering arousal. Bashir moans without restraint and Garak almost can’t bear it. He sits up gripping Bashir at the hips and bringing all of his weight down on his hands, pinning Bashir to the mattress. Bashir tilts his head back and closes his eyes with a frustrated exhale. Garak eyes the bared neck, begging to be kissed, bit, torn. He wonders if this display of submission is as significant to humans as it would be for a Cardassian.

Garak surveys Bashir thoughtfully. His shirt is askew and has come partially untucked. The buttons across his chest are straining against gasping breaths. Garak shifts his weight forward so that he straddles belly instead of hip and he gets a questioning look in response. Garak leans back and Bashir feels the binding at his feet loosen. He leans forward and, after a moment, Bashir’s hands are released. Bashir starts to pull himself up on his elbows, worried that Garak has changed his mind, but a hand on his chest keeps his back firmly against the mattress.

“I want to feel you struggling underneath me, Bashir.”

The words light a fire in Bashir’s belly and his painfully restrained cock responds with a throb. He is held down, easily grasped by the wrists in one cold grey hand, the other deftly freeing the buttons of his shirt. With his larger frame and Cardassian musculature, unlike his holographic henchmen, Garak needs no enhancement to overpower Bashir.Bashir is startled by this strength and he feels his first panic and doubt, more helpless than when he was bound. His legs are released and he experiences a moment of vertigo as he is flipped over without effort, a heavy body straddling his lower back. His shirt is pulled off, resisting for a moment at the cuffs - he registers the sound of a button hitting the floor. Garak shifts off of him and he hears fabric give way when the tuxedo pants are pulled off in one rough motion along with his underwear, weight immediately returning to crush him to the mattress.

_I’m not paying for those repairs, tailor,_ Bashir smiles to himself.

He can feel Garak pressing in to him, feel how hard he is. He tries to move, but he strains for nothing. The weight on his back shifts and varies for a few seconds and he feels cool bare flesh against his own. Then it is gone and hands clamp down on either side of his hips, hauling him back on to his knees. While one hand remains on his hip, fingers digging in, another fists in to his hair painfully, forcing the side of his face down in to the mattress. He stills for a moment and is relieved to feel the pressure on his head let up. When something hard unceremoniously presses against his opening, he bucks forward to avoid it and his head is yanked back and shoved down again “Ah!”

A knee drives between his and forces his legs apart. Garak is still for a few moments behind him and he hears something metallic as Garak retrieves and opens a small container from the side of the bed. 

He feels himself being prodded open. A slick finger enters him and then another, pushing and stretching, the sensation alien and unpleasant.

Soon the fingers are gone and something is pushing in to him, large and cool and so hard and he’s not nearly ready. He knows the anatomy, that there are ridges running up either side of the shaft which would be a lot for him to take even if it hadn’t been so very long since he has experienced this particular act. Feeling panicked, he struggles, but he is held tight at the hips and feels it enter too quickly, then relief as it pulls out slightly and pain as it is slammed in completely. He sobs and he strains against those hands, they are removed only to be replaced on his forearms, the weight of Garak’s chest pressed at his back. He tries to pull his arms away and cannot move under the bruising pressure.

Garak is moving again, pulling out and roughly pushing himself back in and the weight on Bashir’s forearms is too much. Cramps threaten and his thigh muscles are already burning and he feels like he is being torn and he opens his mouth to say the word. For a moment, he thinks he has said it, but he hears his voice in the room and he has only managed gibberish, some mash up of vowels. He clamps his lips together determined to presevere.

As he acclimates to the violent intrusion, another sensation blooms in his abdomen. It’s pleasant and warm and twisting, passing in to his cock, pulsing up his spine. It meets the pain, overtakes it and he is crying out again and again coherence is lost before the sounds leave him, but Garak hears the demand for more, harder.

Garak briefly gives him what he is begging for, but he soon slows his rhythm. Bashir’s legs are shaking and he is allowed to ease forward on his stomach, arms bent against his chest, and Garak slips most of the way out. A hand grips the back of Bashir’s neck and the ridged cock starts to push its way in again and the pain is back and he needs it to stop, if just for a moment.

Bashir twists under Garak, trying to use an arm trapped under his body for leverage to wriggle free. Garak sits up, pressing himself deeper inside and backhands him across the face. After a moment’s hesitation, he does it again with much more force. Bashir cries out in pain. Strong hands grab him by the hips and pull him to his knees again cock still buried inside. Nails scrape up the side of his thighs, skin burning in their wake, before a hand grabs hold of his dripping cock and gives it a squeeze. He yells in pleasure this time. A few languid pumps of that hand on his shaft and the other hand takes a fistful of hair, pulling his torso upright. Both hands now rake over his chest and belly, savoring the smooth expanse of skin.

Garak is shaking slightly from a mix of exertion and exhilaration, awed by the access he has been given. The hands wander back down to Bashir’s cock, pressing it in to his belly, then encircling it. Bashir thrusts his hips slightly seeking more contact, causing his ass to constrict and pull at the ridged member it surrounds. Both men groan and they fall in to a rhythm, Garak’s hand firm around Bashir’s cock, guiding the doctor with the other to pump his hips forward in to Garak’s hand then backward on to his cock. Bashir’s breath is ragged, he feels nothing but pleasure now.

He becomes aware of a scent that he has never noted consciously, something that he can now connect to countless lunches and conversations with his friend. It’s Garak, but amplified, now filling the room and it is intoxicating. He can hear Garak behind him, hard breathing accentuated by quiet hums of pleasure and Bashir has to concentrate to keep from climaxing in to Garak’s hand. He stills himself. 

Garak leans the weight of his chest in to Bashir’s back and eases his hips down, allowing his ass to rest on his heels. Garak almost slips out and then drives himself further in. Bashir gasps.

Garak is done showing restraint, he holds Bashir still with hands pressing down on his hips, he begins to thrust with complete abandon. Bashir is gasping, moaning, speaking words that aren’t words. His arms reach out for nothing, hands grasping at sheets. Garak’s mouth is at his shoulder blade and he is tasting sweat and breathing in Bashir’s scent. He raises Bashir’s ass slightly, allowing enough space to reach a hand around the hip and whispers “this will hurt you more than me”, he grabs Bashir’s cock pumping firmly and bites down at the shoulder, just shy of breaking the skin. Bashir cries out again, loud and primal. Garak would mistake it for rage if it weren’t for the pulsing cock in his hand, releasing itself over his fingers and Bashir’s thighs, warm and wet. Garak’s own climax follows, not as loud but no less intense.

Garak lets himself collapse, chest pressed against Bashir’s back. Both hearts are pounding as the men struggle to bring their breath back to normal. After a few moments Garak reluctantly pulls out and rolls off to lie on his side.

Bashir stretches out on the bed, turns on to his back and blinks lazily. Garak admires him, his gaze nothing short of reverent. His breath catches for a moment, seeing the doctor flushed, eyes lidded, hair in disarray, and somehow more beautiful than ever. He hesitantly runs his hands gently down the side of his neck and over his chest. Bashir’s eyes close with pleasure. Garak leans in, pressing his lips gently to the angry mark that has formed on Bashir’s cheek. Bashir nuzzles in to him encouraging more. He kisses down his neck, Bashir hums his pleasure and even reaches a hand up to rest gently at the back of a scaled neck. Garak runs his thumb gently over the reddened cheek .

“You’re alright?” Garak’s voice is soft. Those eyes, eyes that would cause his stomach to flutter in the most innocuous of settings, meet his.

“Very” Bashir kisses him, a satiated kiss, deep but unrushed. Garak sits up to retrieve a blanket that had been pushed aside. He covers both men and puts his arms around the doctor, savoring the feeling of warmer flesh pressed against his front. He runs his hands tenderly along Bashir’s back and hips, giving a little more pressure and attention above the hip bones where he knows that bruises are forming and he indulges himself in another soft kiss on the lips, followed by a lingering one to the younger man’s forehead.

“I have to say that I’m surprised at you, doctor. This was…unexpected, to say the least”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised myself,” He pulls back from Garak just enough to give him a smile, “It was nice, though, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly. I suppose I would expect a young man like yourself to be a bit adventurous, although I question your judgement in partner,” this earns him a soft incredulous laugh. “I only mean that I would have thought you would be more wary of leaving yourself vulnerable to someone like me.”

“I think that is the main point of this sort of experience, giving yourself over completely to another person. Giving up control and just…trusting.”

“And is this something that you like to experience often?”

“No, actually. I was introduced to the concept by a woman I knew in my academy days. We didn’t date, exactly, but she really enjoyed being dominated by men. She would explain to me exactly what she wanted and I would provide it for her. It was enjoyable…fun, but I never felt a strong pull to try it again after her. I’d actually never tried it from the other side.”

“You mean…this is the first time you….”

“Yes.”

Garak cups Bashir’s cheek in his hand, presses his lips to his forehead again, “I’m honored by the trust that you have shown me tonight” his voice barely above a whisper.

Bashir runs his lips along a neck ridge and gives it a light nip with his teeth, Garak exhales with a soft laugh.

“So, my dear doctor”

“yes, plain and simple tailor?” that earns a smile.

“Is this something we might indulge in again?”

“Well,” lips trail back up the neck ridge, “If you want to, I can hardly stop you, can I?”

Nails run down Bashir’s spine, hands pull him in close “My dear, if you continue to talk like that, we are going to have to pay Quark to extend our session in this suite”

Bashir chuckles and buries his face in Garak’s neck.

 

————

 

Bashir has changed back in to the gray suite, leaving the other for Garak to collect and repair.

He limps down through Quark’s, sore both from Garak’s ministrations and from the unfamiliar exertion of horseback riding.

“If you’ve had a mishap, I’m not liable” Quark calls to him from behind the bar.

“As it turns out, playing with a Cardassian presents different challenges than playing against a computer”

“I’ll bet”

 


	3. Lunch/Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has a lunch date with Garak and a date date, not with Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say about this, other than - there is more to come and this is going somewhere...sort of. Feedback is most welcome.

————

Bashir sits across from Garak at the replimat. The Cardassian is talking, has been talking for some time. Something about metaphorical parallels in literature between the state and the patriarch as head of the family. Something about layers of mirroring between character relationships and political maneuvering. Something about, “I’m sorry, what?” Bashir finally asks, having lost track of the conversation.

Bashir had taken his cue from Garak when they met up for their regular lunch, smiling lightly, exchanging pleasantries and, once seated with their meals, diving in to an acrimonious discussion about the latest book he had recommended. Of course, they weren’t going to bring up what had happened. Not here in public. Not that there was anything to talk about. Still, it felt a bit odd sitting across from his friend without acknowledging the evening that they had shared in the holodeck.

“My point,” Garak continues, “is that when this author goes on about the character’s history with their father, they are literally representing a relationship between a child and their parent. It could not be more simplistic.”

Bashir leans forward and gestures with his fork, “Yes, it is literal, that doesn’t make it simplistic or insignificant. Family shapes people. Childhood shapes people. You have it backwards. The personal stories, the stories about what makes us who we are, about what motivates us, that’s what literature is about. That’s what fiction is. Exploring our condition. We’re supposed to see ourselves reflected in them. The grand epic tales are just backdrops for the stories, the people and the relationships, that really matter. ”

“This is the problem with human culture, you don’t understand yourselves as part of a greater whole. These authors going on about childhood disappointment and lost love. It’s self indulgent. Truly great fiction should should move and motivate toward a higher cause. It should inspire by example, both positive and negative. Not prompt the reader to sit around in self absorbed contemplation. Cardassian authors understand the importance of a greater purpose. Lacking that understanding, you are left with this sort of trite and basic story telling.”

“If I were a tailor, I’d make it my pride…” Bashir mutters quietly.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.” Bashir smiles, “You know, many people would say that understanding and addressing our personal issues makes us better able to fulfill our greater duties.”

“Personal issues…what a very human term” Garak’s demeanor, as it often is during these discussions, is antagonistic, his tone derisive. Garak leans forward, making eye contact with Bashir, as he often does. It’s a challenge that is normally met with an amused smile. Today, it sends a shiver down Bashir’s spine and causes his cock to twitch. He is suddenly very aware of his lunch companion’s scent.

“I suppose it is,” he replies softly and lowers his eyes to his plate.

Bashir spends a distracted afternoon at work wishing that he had something more engaging than minor wounds and tedious paperwork to keep him occupied. As he scrolls through a PADD that he isn’t really reading, he is startled when he hears his name being called.

“Julian!” Bashir looks up to see a casually dressed young woman trying to get his attention from the infirmary entrance.

“Angeline, what are you doing here?!” She looks disappointed. “Not that it’s not great to see you,” he adds, in a warmer tone.

“I just arrived on the station. I thought I’d stop by and say hello. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll see you tonight?”

He had forgotten completely that she would be visiting. She had messaged him not a week ago to let him know that she would be passing through Deep Space Nine, emphasizing that she was especially intent on spending some time with her old friend. Of course, he had responded that he would be delighted to show her around and take her out to dinner.

He smiles warmly “Yes, sorry! It’s been a bit of a day. I’m looking forward to tonight, of course.”

“Alright,” she turns to leave, but stops to give him a coy smile. “You’re looking well.”

Before turning his attention back to his work, he catches Nurse Jabara looking on with a grin, clearly amused.

 

————————

 

Garak is surprised to hear his door chime at such a late hour. He glances at the time displayed on the PADD that he had been engrossed in. Given permission to enter, Bashir walks through the door, taking a moment to adjust to the higher temperature, lower lighting and the music, something operatic and Cardassian that he cannot identify. He lingers near the doorway.

“I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Oh?” Garak gives him one of his wide eyed innocent looks before standing to cross the room to the replicator. “Can I offer you some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Garak orders a drink for himself, making a show of blowing on it and checking the temperature before taking a sip. “you were saying, Doctor? Something about a bone?”

“It’s an expression, it means…I have a problem.”

“A problem, Doctor?”

“You. Ruined. My. Date.”

Garak smiles solicitously as he places his cup on a nearby table. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to enlighten me. I have no idea _what_ you are talking about.”

“I had a date tonight with a lovely young lady,”

“And you wore _that_?”

“A lovely young lady,” Bashir continues, “passing through the station for just one night and you. ruined. it.” Expression neutral, Bashir crosses the room to stand in front of Garak.

“My dear doctor, I must protest. I have been here in my quarters all evening.”

“Exactly” Bashir leans in, face inches from Garak’s. Garak takes the offered opportunity, placing a hand on Bashir’s cheek and kissing him, sending an electric jolt through Bashir’s body. Bashir allows his tongue to explore for several moments before pulling back. “That was exactly the problem.”

“You know, it’s not the best idea for you to show up at my quarter’s late at night. It might raise questions if someone should see you.”

“I know.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes.” Bashir stares intently in to his eyes, issuing a challenge.

“I see.” Garak studied the doctor’s face. “Computer, raise volume by 25%” a male tenor voice fills the room. “The walls are not as soundproof as one might like,” Garak explains, gesturing toward his bedroom door as if ushering a customer in to a changing room. Bashir complies, followed by Garak.

“Clothes off.” Bashir obeys, stripping off a garish blue and purple shirt and black slacks as Garak gazes frankly at each new swath of bared flesh.

Garak places a firm hand at the back of Bashir’s neck, guiding him toward the bed and prompting him to kneel facing it. He hears rustling behind him.

“You know, the belt used to be a common accessory in Cardassian fashion, both for practical and aesthetic reasons, as I believe it once was for humans. There isn’t much use for them these days, but people do like them to break up the lines of an outfit now and then.” An ominous snapping sound causes Bashir to tense up and turn his head to see that Garak, now shirtless, is holding a narrow tan cloth belt folded in half.

The hand returns to Bashir’s neck, then slides gently across his back, pausing with fingers spread. “Your skin is so lovely, especially against mine” Garak examined the contrast between his gray hand and the soft flesh under it which seemed to him to glow golden by contrast. He leans in, tone even and matter of fact “It’s a shame what I’m going to do to it”. Bashir wonders how many interrogation subjects have heard similar statements from that voice in that tone and shivers.

Garak kneels behind him, hands frame Bashir’s head and guide him to look straight ahead. Those cool hands then pass over his shoulders, his chest, his thighs and his back. They pass over him again, and occasionally finger nails graze his skin. Lightly, too lightly, raising gooseflesh all over his body. A brief squeeze of his nipples sends a jolt directly to his already erect cock. He never knew they could be so sensitive. The attention continues and intensifies, pressure increasing as nails start to dig in to his flesh, scraping and scratching. His nipples are pinched and the flesh of his inner thighs is gathered and kneaded and it’s becoming painful. He is touched and teased over and over everywhere but his cock. When his opening is lightly brushed, he finds himself pushing back in to the caress, but the finger is removed and his cock is dripping and he wants so badly to touch himself, but he keeps his hands obediently at his sides.

“What did you think, Doctor?” a hand snakes up in to his hair and holds him there firmly, keeping his head facing the bed. “Did you think you were going to take her back to your quarters?” A blow from the belt lands on Bashir’s flank and he cries out. “Computer, increase volume by 25%” The music intensifies. “Did you think you were going to lay her out on your bed” pain rips across his ass “gently remove her clothes” again in the same spot. It stings like hell and Bashir is started to tear up “part her soft legs, stroke her, get her wet” twice across the lower back and his cries are easily heard over the music “enter her while she squirms and giggles under you? Gently make love to her until you were both satisfied?” Garak pulls him to standing and shoves at his back, bending him over the bed. Bashir’s long legs bow awkwardly to keep his hips flush with the mattress and he is already trembling. The contact feels good against his hard cock and Garak allows him to grind his hips against it, enjoying the site. “You know better, don’t you, my dear?”

“Yes” His voice is barely audible over the swelling music.

“Yes, what? I want to hear you say my name”

“Y-yes, Garak” His voice shakes and he feels impossibly hard. He lets out a low moan.

“I like that. Hearing you say it” He leans over, pressing himself against Bashir’s back, lips close to his ear “Honestly, my dear, I think I could climax from your voice alone.” Bashir blinks, trying to process this sentiment, but he can’t focus.

Blow after blow lands on Bashir’s flesh until he can process nothing but the pain, remotely noting that his hands and feet have grown strangely cold in the warm room.

Garak straightens up, fusses with something for a moment and Bashir feels a slickened finger at his opening. He works his way inside, letting Bashir press back in to him. Once it is in, another finger joins it and, without warning, he brings the belt down hard, eliciting a shout from the other man.

“You know what else I like? The way you tighten up around me when you’re hit. That is going to feel…so…good”

The fingers are gone, quickly replaced as Garak lays himself over Bashir. He pushes himself inside impatiently, causing Bashir to struggle uselessly, pinned agains the bed by the weight of the larger man. Almost immediately, Garak is thrusting deeply accompanied by the intertwined voices of two male singers, first in a call and response and then harmonizing. Bashir no longer notices the individual blows from the belt or the pain as Garak thrusts in to him. The blood rushing in his own ears seems far louder than the music and the room is fading and he is warm everywhere, vibrating, body one big ecstatic nerve.

He feels faint, pleasantly light headed. _Dopamine_. He hears the belt crack against his skin over and over. He doesn’t really feel the impact, yet he desperately wants more. _Sympathetic nervous system response._ He hears himself moaning distantly. _Release of endorphins and enkephalins._ His hands brace against the mattress, trying to push back harder against the cock entering him. _Suprarenal glands releasing epinephrine_. He doesn’t have it in him to move any more, he makes no sound, but lies over the edge of the bed letting the sensations wash over him as Garak continues to pound in to him.

He is becoming aware of his surroundings again because _no_ , Garak has stilled behind him. The belt hangs limp. Bashir twists to look at him and Garak cups his chin, examining his face with concern. 

“please….PLEASE” is all Bashir can manage and he arches his back and pushes back against Garak’s cock. Garak’s eyes close and he resumes and another whispered “please” and the belt is raised and Bashir is moaning and whining. Garak pulls Bashir’s chest upright, his strokes long and firm, resting a hand on Bashir’s chest and his cheek against his back as he takes Bashir’s cock in to his fist firmly and brings him to completion, soon crying out with his own release. 

Bashir’s legs give as Garak pulls out and he slides to his knees.

“Computer, end playback.” Garak kneels and runs his hands over the red welts raised over Bashir’s skin. “Alright?” Bashir can only nod faintly, his eyes unfocused. Garak gently pulls his head in to his chest and holds him, pressing his lips in to sweat dampened hair. He eases them both down to lie on the carpet.

Bashir is shaking, He buries his head in Garak’s chest and just breathes for a few minutes, letting Garak stroke his thumb soothingly up and down the back of his neck. Then, Bashir starts exploring, running his hand gently along ridges, tracing the edges of scales with his fingers. Garak makes a happy sated humming sound. Bashir pulls his head back and replies with a soft smile and they share a kiss. Garak moves away, gently guides Bashir’s shoulder towards him so that he’s lying on his stomach and begins to trace cool hands over the abused skin, reverent, eyes following his own movements, then lips trail after placing soft kisses against each angry wound. He pulls a blanket from the bed and stretches out beside Bashir, covering them both. Bashir turns to face him and Garak draws him in against his chest, ignoring a sticky mess on his thighs and stomach growing tacky between them.

“Now, would you like that tea?” Garak asks in a whisper.

“mmm…maybe in a minute. Stay with me.”

“I will.”

 

————


	4. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashir seeks out Garak in the tailor's shop.

—————————

 

Now that he is consciously aware of the scent that Garak gives out, Bashir notices it whenever he is near. He tries to compartmentalize as much as Garak seems to be able to. He sits with Garak in public and debates about literature. He responds lightly to the Cardassian’s flirtations as if there wasn’t something powerful behind them. When he is alone, he touches himself and thinks of Garak - not of anything they’ve done or of any particular aspect of Garak’s appearance, he just conjures the memory of that scent and the feel of scales against his fingers and of a ridged member entering him and it’s enough to bring him quickly to climax by his own hand.

On this particular day, he wakes up with these thoughts, perhaps due to some already forgotten dream. He is hard and he takes care of it before he gets out of bed, but it doesn’t do much to tamp down his desire. He is distracted throughout the morning. Every time he sits down, fading soreness from healing skin brings his thoughts back to Garak. He has no lunch plans with the tailor, but decides to stop by the shop at the appropriate time, just to say hello. Just to see him, to be close to him. He is delighted to find that, not only is Garak there, but the shop is otherwise empty. Garak gives Bashir a pleasant neutral smile and Bashir approaches, getting close enough to smell the other man. _I’ve literally come sniffing around_ , he smiles to himself.

He realizes that he has failed to invent an excuse for his visit, but Garak has wordlessly walked to the front of the shop and is closing it for ‘lunch’.

“After you, my dear.” Garak gestures toward one of the changing rooms.

Bashir enters the small curtained room. He immediately kneels, smiling up at Garak. As the tailor approaches, Bashir places his hands on either side of Garak’s hips and presses his mouth against thick rough fabric. He breathes in to it, pressing and working his mouth until he feels Garak hardening beneath the cloth. Garak opens the fastening on his trousers and frees himself. This is the first time that Bashir has properly seen it. He reaches up with reverent curiosity, running his fingers along the ridges on either side, causing Garak to make a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Bashir takes the tip in to his mouth, exploring gently with his tongue.

Garak groans, then pulls away, reaching down to tilt Bashir’s head up by his chin.

“A question, my dear, about our rules.” Bashir’s eyes meet his, but dart down to the neglected cock, tongue sneaking out to brush his lip. “If your mouth is…otherwise occupied.”

“Ah, “ Bashir’s eyes return to Garak’s face, lively with anticipation, “If I need you to stop, I’ll tap you twice, hard.” He demonstrates by knocking his palm against Garak’s hip.

Garak nods. “Now that we’ve settled that…”

He grips Bashir’s head firmly, hands on either side, and pushes him against the back wall. He teases his tip in and out of the warm waiting mouth a few times and then begins to push deeper. Bashir gags at first, then remembers to inhale as it enters and soon finds it buried in his throat. Garak leaves it fully enveloped for a few moments, then begins to tilt his hips subtly, groaning again as Bashir’s tight throat works around his head. He lengthens the strokes, pulling out more and more each time.

Bashir allows his head to lean forward for a moment and the back of it is knocked painfully against the wall as Garak thrusts in to him. Garak grabs a fistful of Bashir’s hair and holds him firmly against the wall, stilling Bashir as he continues to thrust. Garak pauses for a moment, pulls out and leads Bashir by the hair, guiding him to crawl to the side wall before again bracing his head against it. Garak can now turn his own neck and watch in the mirror as he disappears in to Bashir’s mouth, strained open, cheeks hollowed, neck elongated. Garak runs a thumb along the smooth skin of the younger man’s cheek. He wants to see more. He pulls away and takes a step back

“Clothes off.” Bashir rushes to comply, clumsy on his knees. He divests himself of his uniform and boots, shoving them in to the corner, then looks up expectantly at Garak from his kneeling position, his own arousal evident between his legs, his attention torn between Garak’s face and cock.

He closes his eyes as Garak takes hold of his hair again and buries himself in Bashir’s throat. Bashir moans around his cock extracting an answering sound from Garak. Bashir wraps his hand around his own painfully hard member.

“No,” Garak commands, pulling back and raising his foot, batting Bashir’s arm away with the toe of his boot. Bashir opens his eyes and lowers the arm to his side obediently and Garak presses the sole of his boot firmly against Bashir’s crotch. Bashir moans and grinds himself in to the boot. Garak watches the act of frottage in the mirror and it is the most pathetic, and possibly the most beautiful, sight he’s ever seen. He removes the boot and Bashir whines in protest. Garak pins him back to the wall by the hair and renters, pumping his partial length in to Bashir’s mouth, every few strokes burying himself completely and letting Bashir’s throat struggle around him.

Bashir is choking and sputtering, and saliva is leaking out around the edges of his mouth where he cannot maintain a seal around the ridges. Garak isn’t quiet when he finally reaches his climax and Bashir makes a terrible noise between a retch and a cough while his throat works to swallow what he can. Garak pulls out to see Bashir sitting back on his heels looking up at him, eyes watering, a viscous mix of saliva and semen streaming down his chin joined by a trickle of mucus from his nose. He is shaking and beautiful and still hard.

“Go ahead,” Garak instructs, as he refastens his pants.

Bashir brings one trembling hand up to stroke himself and another to cup his testicles. He is looking at Garak, watching the tailor watch him, and under that cold blue stare it is a matter of seconds before he throws his head back, groaning, releasing in streams across his belly and over the top of his thighs.

Garak nods his approval and walks out of the changing room. Bashir’s shaking is becoming shivering in his exposed state and he sits, uncertain if he should be moving. Garak is back within a few seconds and is holding a soft cloth. He takes another moment to observe the doctor, naked and filthy and absolutely breathtaking. Garak kneels down in front of him and gently wipes his face clean with the moistened fabric, then turns it over tucking the soiled part away and wipes down Bashir’s stomach and thighs before putting the cloth aside. Bashir never takes his eyes from Garak’s face. Once he is clean, blue eyes meet his and he helps himself to full lips as cold as his own. Garak pulls him close and wraps his arms around him, tenderly stroking the hair that he had been roughly pulling a few minutes before. He places a kiss on Bashir’s forehead where a Cardassian’s teardrop ridge would be.

“You’re cold. You should get dressed”

“mmm,” Bashir agrees, but he closes his eyes and buries his nose into the hollow formed by Garak’s neck ridge.

———

Garak clings to the dream, a half waking memory, as he reluctantly leaves the comfort of sleep behind. He had been reliving the only time that they had an encounter outside of his quarters. The time that the doctor had come to him in his shop. After that day, they met more regularly at night, sometimes sharing a private meal and discussion before switching gears.

The dream fades as he becomes oriented to his surroundings, breathing through the initial panic of waking in his cell. It’s been the same every morning for months, the slow process of coming to in this place. He repeats the same things to himself. _You have plenty of air. You’re fine. Just get through the first few minutes. You’re fine. You have plenty of air._ He imagines the brig force field dropping, being able to wander out on to the promenade again, but it feels like all of the station is closing in on him. His heart rate jumps and he can’t breath and he has to start again. _You have plenty of air._

He tries to distract himself and his dream comes back to him. He has been thinking about Bashir again, dreaming about him, remembering. He curses himself for being such a ridiculous old man. He knew that the doctor providing physical access to his young body did not equate to possession of any kind, did not mean anything more than some hedonistic indulgence. Knowing better did not stop Garak from allowing himself to believe that they might be building something more than a little bit of excitement in their clandestine encounters.

His mind drifts to a less pleasant memory.

——

It was the first evening of his incarceration and Garak had winced when he saw Bashir coming through the door. Odo was nowhere in sight and apparently any senior staff member could just walk in to the brig. Their brief conversation had not gone well.

“I know it’s in your nature to be glib, but we are talking about _genocide,_ Garak.” Bashir is tense, his face reddened with restrained fury.

“And if I had been permitted to go through with it, the entire alpha quadrant would not now be under threat. We will likely be facing an all out war now. The founder threatened my planet, do you understand? The lives of every Cardassian are in danger. I saw an opportunity to try and prevent the genocide of my own people and it was my duty to take it.”

“And I suppose you didn’t give any thought to the fact that, aside from nearly every founder in existence, Sisko and I were down on the planet you were about to destroy.”

“Do you _hear_ yourself, Doctor? We’re talking about the extermination of an entire species and a threat to the lives and societies of an entire quadrant and you really expect me to have put concerns about a couple of human lives or, for that matter, the lives on board the Defiant above that?”

“Oh, forgive me for my ridiculous human failings. We tend to take attempted murder personally.”

“Why are you here?” Garak demanded, finally raising his voice. “Were you expecting some sort of apology? Did you think I would be _contrite_?”

“No. I know better.” Bashir responds coldly.

“Good. Because I only regret my actions in that they were unsuccessful,” but Bashir was already walking away.

——

Garak had held on to the memories of the times that they spent together, both their pleasant lunch time conversations and their intense physical explorations. At first, the recollections were a comfort. Now they made him feel foolish. Of course, it all meant very little to the young, beautiful and brilliant man. Had anyone found out, Starfleet would have been all over Garak. The suspected spy seducing a young officer, especially an officer that is mistakenly seen as naive by his colleagues. Garak would have been driven off of the station in no time, compromising his safety and what little comfort and stability he had been able to find for himself, all because he could not resist the attention of an attractive young man. Now that the doctor had been reminded of just what he had been playing with, he was gone forever. Garak knew that humans had a ridiculous capacity for forgiveness and that he might one day share a table at the replimat with Bashir again and his mind even clung to that thought as a comfort. _Pathetic_.

He tells himself that he will stop thinking about the doctor, stop remembering, but the mind numbing boredom and constant exhaustion of fighting his own anxiety in the enclosed cell force his brain to grab on to anything pleasant and distracting. His mind wanders again and again, remembering the feeling of a warm body against his and the fleeting company that his little folly provided.

It’s not always the sex that he thinks about. He actively avoids thinking about that, in fact, as relieving the tensions that those recollections cause is difficult and frustrating with the lack of privacy in his cell. It’s the times after and in between the sex that he tends to dwell on. Their conversations were different during these times. They rarely argued about books or music during those quiet moments while he brought the doctor back out of the fog that seemed to come over him during their more intense encounters. They shared things during these times, had gotten to know each other in unexpected ways. He was always surprised at how open the doctor seemed to become with him. It made him lower his own defenses. He cursed his foolishness again, remembering how much he revealed of himself, but still he lets his mind drift back to the doctor. He often revisits the night that Bashir had almost stayed.

——

That evening, the doctor had brought a dermal regenerator, no doubt one that had officially been ‘lost’, to leave in Garak’s quarters. That way Garak would not, as he normally did, have to avoid leaving marks that would be visible outside of Bashir’s uniform. After Garak finished abusing the doctor’s body, he reached for the device and ran it over a bite mark on the back of Bashir’s neck. He started to adjust his position so that he could work on the welts that covered Bashir’s back, but he was stilled by a hand.

“You can leave those. I kind of like…” Bashir hesitated and then met his eyes, “…they remind me.”

Garak put down the regenerator, ran his fingers over Bashir’s cheek and placed a kiss on his mouth.

They lay in bed side by side, sweaty and covered in a drying mixture of semen and lubricant. Garak kept considering getting up to moisten a towel so that he could clean the worst of the mess (starting with Bashir and then taking care of himself, as always), but he was just so comfortable and Bashir was talking and he wanted to savor this post coital moment and listen to that soft beautiful accent. Bashir was on his back and Garak lay on his side running his hand over the smooth expanse of Bashir’s chest.

Garak doesn’t remember everything that they talked about that night. The conversations from their times together blend together in his mind, but he remembers that they had got around to the rare topic of their sexual encounters.

Bashir had been explaining, “I mean, you’re giving me what I want. You’re doing all the work and you have to stop at a word from me. If you think about it, the power really lies with the one in the ‘submissive’ role”

“Oh, is that _so_ ,” the hand that was stroking Bashir’s chest slid up to press in to the base of his neck, just enough to cause discomfort. A gratifying flash of fear in Bashir’s eyes and Garak was on him, straddling him. Before Bashir knew what was happening, his hands were pinned against the mattress above his head. He felt teeth at his neck and a knees hooked under his own, shoving his legs up toward his chest. Still slick from earlier, Garak slid easily back inside. The belt lay forgotten on the floor and Garak didn’t raise a hand to him, the violence of the act restricted to his bruising grip on a narrow waist and his hips slamming against Bashir’s ass.

Afterwards, they didn’t speak. They lay there in the mess, legs intertwined, Garak’s arm under Bashir’s neck. He heard the young man’s breathing deepen and even out. Bashir was falling asleep, if he wasn’t already there. Garak indulged himself, watching Bashir’s peaceful face, and felt a disturbing twist in his stomach. He caught himself starting to nod off and wanted more than anything to let go and allow himself to drift away to sleep with the warmth of his companion against his side. He sighed.

“Doctor,” he nudged Bashir awake, “as much as I would like to have your company at breakfast, I suspect that you would rather not be seen leaving here in the morning.”

Bashir groaned unhappily and sat up. “Not to be presumptuous, but you _could_ call me Julian at this point.” Bashir looked at him expectantly.

“And you could call me Elim, I suppose,” Garak favored Bashir with a pointed look from his wide eyes “As long as no one else hears you. Now, go home, Julian.”

Bashir swung his long legs to the floor and collected his clothing. “Goodnight, Elim.”

His smile was devastating.

———

Garak turns himself to face the cell wall and squeezes his eyes shut against the memory. Bashir was always so beautiful. He reminded Garak of a Perek flower, color blossoming in those expressive eyes and soft face, born around on his sweet stem of a body. Garak felt overwhelmed in its presence, even more so after the doctor had given him full access to every inch of it. He had the urge to take that bloom in his hands and crush it, only to smooth it out and caress its soft contours over and over again.

He takes a few more deep breaths, willing the doctor’s face from his mind. He reaches for the book that he’s been reading and opens it, forcing himself to focus on a story that he’s already read many times over.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time jump - This chapter takes place a few months after Broken Link. Garak is serving a 6 month sentence in the brig after attempting to destroy the Founder's planet.


	5. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his release from the brig, Garak soon finds himself in a prison of another kind with some unexpected company.

———

 

 

Bashir goes about his daily routine aboard Deep Space Nine. It isn’t hard to stay engaged and focused on his work. These days he does not have much time for the in depth research that he values. There is increased traffic through the station as tensions with the Dominion rise. It brings plenty of new patients in a variety of species which take time to study and treat.

It’s good to be busy. It makes him feel more integrated in to a team that has not always been welcoming to him. It also keeps his mind from wandering as much to the self recrimination that he has been subjecting himself to for the past few months. He has spent too much time kicking himself for his naiveté. He had been careless, going to Garak’s shop, coming and going to his quarters at late hours. He’d even entertained fantasies about being out in the open with the Cardassian. About traversing that gap that always remains between them in public, reaching across a replimat table or allowing himself to lean against Garak’s sturdy frame as they walked through the promenade. He had been forgetting who Garak really was and, more importantly, what Bashir really was. It’s hard to regret those evenings and the pleasure they brought, but he is dismayed at his own foolishness in letting his defenses drop, risking the discovery that had terrified him throughout his adult life.

He needs to make sure that no one finds out that there was more to his relationship with the imprisoned man than the occasional lunch. It’s ridiculous that he risked that kind of scrutiny for a spy, terrorist and attempted génocidaire. Starfleet would be all over him, digging through his past. He would be exposed. His illegal genetic alterations would be known. He would be humiliated and would lose his career if not his freedom. All for a little fun. He shouldn’t be surprised that being led around by his own cock would almost be his undoing.

He winces when he thinks about their time together. He can’t believe he let himself be so vulnerable, especially with Garak. He thinks of all that he let that man do to him. He should feel shame, but still he feels arousal and he can’t deny how much he misses it. The things that Garak would do to him, the absolute abandon of placing his body in to the stronger man’s complete control. Afterwards, Garak would be so attentive. Holding him, finding each injury and kissing it. Garak would help him heal and would even rub his sore muscles after, stopping him from drifting off to sleep when he became too relaxed. The juxtaposition between the violence and tenderness was heady and he would find himself craving the fists and the lips in equal measure.

It was clearly best to leave it in the past and behave as if it had never happened. He tried not to think of Garak alone in that cramped cell. He knew that visiting again would be a mistake.

He hates how aware he is of Garak’s impending release. He knows what day it is scheduled and finds himself wondering about the time. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

He doesn’t see Garak for several days after he knows that the tailor has been freed and that the shop has reopened for business. He tells himself that he is relieved and not disappointed that they have not encountered each other. He fights an instinct to change his route whenever he has to walk by the tailor’s shop forcing himself not to peer inside.

He is instantly aware of it the first time that Garak walks in to the replimat while he is there. He focuses on the PADD in front of him and quickens his pace to get through his solitary lunch although his stomach suddenly feels tight and starts to churn as he shovels food in to it too quickly. He avoids eye contact, not wanting to navigate the area between being rude and extending an invitation.

The first time that they are in proximity, passing near the replimat as he is leaving, he gives a friendly nod and a greeting, “welcome back” without slowing his pace.

“Thank you, Doctor” he hears behind him.

The weeks pass. They share a few more friendly greetings and a fleeting conversation or two. Bashir focuses on work, on the looming threat of the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant and on preparing to depart for an upcoming burn treatment conference. He hopes that the treatment techniques he learns there will not have to be put to use too quickly.

 

————

 

As Garak predicted, soon he is once again sharing a table with Bashir for an occasional lunch, mostly with Ziyal as a buffer. There are no arguments at these lunches. No more book exchanges or discussions about music. Only light conversation, if talk of an impending war can be considered light.

Garak sits, eats, talks, and avoids looking too closely at Bashir. He tries not to notice the gangly figure that the young man cuts in his uniform. Garak convinces himself that he has exaggerated the proportions in his head, but each time he sees the doctor they seem even more pronounced. Noticing seems to cause his chest to constrict. He tries not to think of Bashir at all and tells himself that his bed felt even more empty when he had a companion that would always leave.

He really is comforted by Ziyal. She represents a little bit of home even though the half Cardassian, having spent most of her life laboring in a Breen mine, knows almost nothing of their planet. She makes it clear that she has feelings for him. He tries to discourage her inexplicable crush without discouraging her company, which is a fine line to walk and he thinks he mostly fails. Strategically, it is not the worst idea to have the affection of the daughter of Dukat. It might come in handy. It might even save his life.

His existence aboard the station has started to settle back in to a routine as normal as it ever was when he receives word of a message. It is Cardassian millitary code picked up by a listening post in the Gamma quadrant. Inscrutable to Starfleet or Bajor, but quite clear to Garak when he is called to ops to decipher it. The message is meant for him. Tain is alive, not killed by the Domion, after all. Tain needs him and there is no question that he must go to his ‘mentor’. Starfleet seems to readily accept the fabrication that he feeds them, that the message is outdated and irrelevant. Of course, Bashir is the one who catches him out, preventing him from stealing a runabout and heading for the Gamma quadrant on his own. Instead, he is forcedto come clean to Sisko and to go through the ‘proper’ channels to get transport to the Gamma Quadrant. Regardless of the method, he is doing what he must do.

He tries to get Bashir to go with him. He almost wishes he could explain that Tain isn’t just his mentor, that he is more to Garak than the person that groomed him in the Obsidian Order. Even when he and Bashir had a closer relationship, disclosing his status as the illegitimate child of Enabran Tain and a housekeeper would have been too much. He would not speak this particular truth aloud to anyone. 

Instead of being in Bashir’s company, he finds himself stuck in a runabout with Worf for hours. Even baiting the Klingon isn’t enough to make the time pass and sooth his nerves. He keeps up a constant string of dialog to cover his anxious energy, teasing Worf and complaining about everything from the replicated tea to the inefficient layout of federation control panels. Knowing that he is irritating Worf is his sole comfort.

Garak is responsible for what becomes of them, attacked and imprisoned by the Jem’Hadar. Worf had tried to stop their journey citing unnecessary risk, but Garak pressed him to continue, driven by the knowledge that Tain was out there somewhere. Driven by his duty and by other needs that he would not give thought to. He is glad now that he is not with Bashir, probably the only person that could have turned him back to Deep Space Nine.

When they are escorted to their prison barracks, they find Tain lying on a cot, clearly dying.

“I couldn’t count on you,” is all that he has to say to his protégé. “All you’ve done is to doom us both.”

Garak can barely refrain from laughing out loud at himself. He had expected…what? gratitude? pride? Tain was incapable. A lifetime of seeking that man’s approval and all Garak had to show for his trouble, aside from a long painful exile from his home world, was imprisonment and probable imminent death. Decades of frustration and resentment swirl within him mixing unpleasantly with the looming crush of claustrophobia at being trapped within the camp.

Tain has been secretly working in a crawl space off of the barracks, modifying obsolete equipment to create the transmitter that messaged Garak. The first thing that breaks through Garak’s sullen fury is the realization that they will need to somehow utilize this if they are going to get free of the Jem’Hadar.

The next thing that draws his attention is a haggard prisoner released from solitary and thrown back in with the group. Garak finds himself face to face with Bashir. The real Bashir. Tired and tousled and in need of a shave, unlike the well groomed perfect copy of a changeling that Garak had just left behind on Deep Space Nine. A changeling that he and Worf now learn has been living aboard the station with them for over a month while Bashir rotted in the camp, doing his best to keep his follow prisoners in one piece while they are pitted in combat against their captors for Jem’Hadar ‘training’ purposes. The need to get out of the camp and get word back to the federation is more urgent than ever.

Garak evaluates Bashir, really looking at him for the first time in months. It’s the same lanky figure as ever with longer mussed hair and stubble. Garak hates that he is responsive to it. His first instinct is to comfort the man. He wants to hold him and heal him and let him rest. Instead, they walk together and talk. Bashir tells him, “frankly, I’m glad you came.”

Garak finds himself going on and on about Tain. He’s upset and he knows that he’s babbling “I’ve been a fool. Let this be a lesson to you, Doctor…sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.”

“If that’s true,” Bashir responds, “it’s a lesson I’d rather not learn” their eyes meet and Garak feels sick to his stomach.

Tain is dying and Garak goes to his side, Bashir following behind.

“Are you alone?” Tain’s eyes are unfocused. 

“Yes, there’s no one else”, Garak replies, glancing at Bashir, asking him to stay. Garak keeps looking to Bashir as he shares Tain’s last moments. Everything is laid bare.

“you’re not my son.”

“Father, you’re dying. For once in your life, speak the truth.” Garak ignores the irony of his plea.

Bashir is witness to the most intimate exchange of Garak’s life. His father denying him, speaking to him with affection, telling him in one moment that he wishes he had killed Garak’s mother before he was born and in the next for the first and only time that he was proud of his son. Then he is gone.

“Garak….” Bashir’s voice is soft.

Their follow prisoners return to the barracks and there is no time for anything but trying to plot their escape.

They need to modify the transmitter to send a signal to the runabout so that they can be beamed out. It’s clear who has to do it. As Bashir tells him, “You…My dear Mr. Garak, are a man of many hidden talents.” The words sting more than they should.“if you can’t do it, no one can.”

“It’s nice to feel needed” Garak replies bitterly.

It takes time to make the changes, sneaking Garak in and out of the walls while avoiding the suspicion of their captors. Bashir and Garak fall in to easy step with each other, a familiarity that has been missing for a long time. Standing close, talking quietly, communicating with a look.Recent history seems to have faded in their dire circumstances.

They learn that the Cardassians have joined the Dominion, that Dukat is the new head of state and all out war is eminent. It’s time to get back to the alpha quadrant.

Bashir is attentive when Garak is working on the transmitter, his concern evident. Garak tamps down the humiliating scene with his father. He tries not to shame himself further with his panic every time he must reenter the hot and dark enclosure behind the wall. 

Bashir stands guard whenever Garak is at work. He rushes to get him out for breaks, attentively examining him, yelling at him, ordering him to take care of himself. Garak is all the more ready to destroy himself to get them all rescued. He reminds himself that the lives of Bashir and their fellow prisoners are in his hands and that poor Ziyal is waiting for him back at the station.

These thoughts only go so far to maintain his focus in the face of blinding fear. He feels his grip on that focus slipping when he is closed up in the wall, his point of entry covered while guards are in the barracks. He starts talking to himself to stave off a meltdown, trying to remember his soothing words from his time in the brig, but that thought only makes him feel more closed in. The dim light he is working by fails him and so do his senses as terror takes them over. The next thing he is aware of is Bashir next to him

“The light went out,” Garak tells him weakly.

Bashir’s arm is around him, thumb stroking his shoulder. He is led out of the wall, laid down on a cot and covered with a blanket. Garak hears voices in the room, his consciousness slips away for a short time.

As the room comes back in to focus, he hears the others talking. Bashir is saying, “We’ll have to come up with a new escape plan.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Garak interjects, rising from the cot.“I just have to finish what I started.”

It is thankfully not much longer before they’re free, beamed up to the runabout. His fellow escapees are grateful to him and something has demonstrably changed between them. There is new respect between himself and Worf. He and Bashir have reached a turning point too, although he is not yet sure of its nature.

Bashir stays near him for much of the shuttle ride home. He is unselfconscious about personal space and he talks as if their spending time together when they return to the station is a given. Lunch plans are made. Garak tells himself that they are just returning to the former friendly companionship that they had shared for years. He berates himself for even speculating about it and for caring under these circumstances.

 

————

 

Lunch is awkward. Garak has barely touched his meal and, for the first time in Bashir’s memory, the Cardassian does not have much to say. Bashir makes a few attempts to start a conversation, but too much hangs in the air between them.Bashir tries to introduce the topic of a novel that he thought Garak might be interested in reading and discussing, but Garak just looks pained.

Bashir let’s the conversation die and silence falls between them. Bashir picks at his food, Garak stares at the plate in front of him. Finally, the human speaks up. “if you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to do this.”

“I am sorry, Doctor. ” Garak uncharacteristically avoids eye contact

“What does that mean? What are you sorry for? Sorry you don’t want to talk about the book? Sorry you don’t want to have lunch with me? Sorry what? “ Bashir realizes he’s raising his voice and his eyes dart around the replimat. 

“I should have known it wasn’t you. That thing was here for a month. I sat here across from it.”

Bashir’s face slackens, mouth parting with a dismayed frown. He reaches out and covers Garak’s forearm with his hand “it wasn’t your fault. We were barely speaking. If anything it was my…..if I had….” He gives up and pulls his hand back “Well, no one knew” his tone sour.

“I should have.”

Bashir takes a breath and blurts out, “I’d like to see you….I mean….” He sighs. “You know what I mean.”

Garak’s eyes snap up to Bashir’s face. Garak seems taken off guard and for a moment Bashir is sure that he is about to be told off.

“Any time.”

 

———

 

Bashir is expecting some return to their former routine. An order to strip and kneel or a stiff invitation to the bedroom area. He is not expecting to be lunged at as he enters Garak’s quarters that evening, a hand at his throat and a hungry mouth at his lips. He is pressed against the wall, first roughly with a palm spread over his chest then a hand back at his throat pinning him there, lips and tongue working across his jaw as if trying to devour him. An explosion in his groin spreads warm fire over his skin, and he can’t tell if he is lightheaded from arousal or from the finger pressed against his carotid artery.

He whimpers and his throat is released, fingers now cradling his head and lips working down his neck and across his collar bone.

Garak is grabbing at him, bruising his biceps with cool hands, pulling his face in by the back of his neck. Garak’s teeth crush to his own pinching his lip between them and then move to nip his cheek, hands fisting painfully in to his hair. The ridges that run along Garak’s jaw scrape at his skin. The intensity is frightening and exhilarating. Garak paws impatiently at his uniform fastenings and Bashir assists him, shrugging out of his shirt and pulling the undershirt overhead. Cool hands and lips are everywhere covering his sides, his chest, brushing over his nipples, his neck. He realizes he has been moaning loudly in to the quiet room.

Then his pants have been tugged down over his thighs and Garak kneels and takes Bashir in to his mouth.

Bashir is overstimulated. It’s been too long since he was touched and it’s too much until it isn’t and he feels the pressure of impending climax building. He stills Garak with a hand pressed to a ridged shoulder.

Garak backs off, reaches for Bashir’s neck and pulls him down toward the floor, shoving him roughly on to his hands and knees. Garak positions himself behind Bashir, impatiently pulling the uniform boots and pants off of his calves. Garak’s tongue works at his opening, the tip pressing in against the muscle and then circling it, moistening the area. A finger replaces it and Garak is leaning over him, seeking out his lips. Bashir opens his mouth widely to accommodate a deep kiss, a copper musk added to Garak’s familiar taste.

Garak leans back briefly to deal with the fastenings on his own trousers, and then he is pressing against Bashir. Bashir rocks his hips back, but Garak works himself inside slowly entering a little way and then pulling back slightly before continuing. Once he is fully in, he lengthens his strokes, gripping Bashir by the waist.

Garak pauses and guides Bashir down to his stomach, slowly so that their contact isn’t broken. Garak’s spread knees frame Bashir’s narrow hips and he begins to drive down in to him with more force. Bashir’s cock is pressed roughly against the carpet and soon he cries out his release. Garak continues to pound in to him, hands gripping him by either shoulder. Bashir’s torso and thighs are heated and raw with the friction against the floor by the time Garak finishes with him.

They lie near each other, stretched out on the floor. Garak is looking at him uncertainly. Bashir closes the gap, ignoring the wet carpet, and kisses him. Garak runs a hand across red skin along Bashir’s chest and thighs before putting his arms around him and drawing him in closely. When they pull apart, the skin at their bellies stick for a moment, tacky with drying semen. Bashir glances down, “It’s been a while” he says with a soft sheepish grin.

Garak just smiles and presses his lips to Bashir’s forehead. He wonders briefly if Bashir means with him or in general. Surely the attractive young man had sought out some other company in all this time. He doesn’t want to know. At the moment, he genuinely can’t bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before during and after the episode In Purgatory's Shadow.  
> My intention to update every two weeksish kind of went poof, but there are only a couple more chapters left and they should be up more quickly. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and feedback is appreciated!


	6. Modifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is going on with Dr. Bashir - Garak would like to know what it is

———————————

 

Bashir is talking with his usual animation, gesturing with his fork and leaning forward energetically. As the doctor is speaking, going on about the repetitive themes of the epic human novel they’ve been discussing, Garak realizes that he never read it. He knows that Bashir leant it to him, but Garak hasn’t seen a word of it. They’ve been discussing it at length and Garak has somehow been bluffing his way through the conversation. He didn’t mean to lie, but it’s too late to backtrack now. He is completely lost. He can’t even understand the words that Bashir is using anymore.

Garak tries to ask Bashir to slow down, but he can’t speak. He tries to stand and the room tilts around him, but he isn’t in control of the movement. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong with his body. With dawning horror, he realizes that his lunch had tasted off. In fact, it wasn’t even what he was going to order. Bashir had brought him the plate and he was so at ease, lulled out of the vigilance that has always kept him alive, that he ate without question.

With great effort, he lifts his head to face the man that has clearly poisoned him. He cannot ask why, but he knows Bashir can see the question clearly in his eyes. Bashir’s smile is almost affectionate. The doctor starts to laugh. Bashir’s face isn’t quite right either. Garak can’t believe he didn’t notice it earlier. In fact, it’s not even Bashir sitting in front of him anymore.Garak is going to die here in the replimat and he doesn’t know why, but he certainly knows how. The person sitting across from him is a changeling, masquerading as his young companion. It shifts form again, ridges rising along its neck and across its face. Garak thinks it’s supposed to be Tain or Dukat, but the form is already shifting, as it the room around them. 

Garak opens his eyes. They adjust slowly as he stares at the ceiling in his darkened quarters, still feeling woozy. It takes him a few moments to realize that his body is sound. The dream fades quickly. Garak can’t hold on to the thread of it, but it leaves him feeling unsettled.

—————

In his waking life, Garak is still very aware of his surroundings and is attuned to small changes in the energies of the station, such as the one that he observes throughout the morning.

Garak hasn’t seen Bashir for a few days. Not since their first time back in his quarters after their imprisonment. They would normally have met for lunch today, but he found a terse cancellation in his messages the evening before. He knows that Bashir is busy, involved in some sort of big project with Starfleet medical and that the doctor’s parents are also visiting the station. It occurs to Garak that, in all their conversations, the topic of their parents has never been raised. After the revelations about Tain, Bashir certainly now knows why _Garak_ has avoided the topic.

Garak hears quiet conversations in the replimat and corridors. He catches the doctor’s name spoken too often, too quietly. News has a way of spreading around the station and clearly something has happened that is worthy of note. He hopes to wring some information from his customers, knowing he can subtly steer the conversation towards his area of interest, but no station regulars visit him in the afternoon.

He plants himself on the upper level of Quark’s in the evening, half hidden in the shadows as is his habit sometimes. He does it when he wants the feeling of companionship without the effort or, on evenings like this, when he wants information or just to take the pulse of the station.

His attention is drawn by the conversation of two passing Starfleet officers, “…shouldn’t let him continue to treat patients while they…” He loses the rest of the sentence, but the duo takes a table nearby, looking out over the bar below, and he can pick up snatches of their discussion when the ambient noise drops. 

“…he’s a damned…ever since Khan…there’s a reason…too big a risk, now with the Dominion threat….” Garak had begun to dismiss this conversation as irrelevant, but as he mulls the words over he starts to make connections and slowly the pieces fall in to place. They are talking about Julian. Little things come back to Garak as he thinks over the past five years that he’s known the Doctor and more of it starts to make sense.

His information is further confirmed the next morning in his shop by a Bajoran customer who is more than happy to gossip. Bashir was genetically enhanced as a child, genes illegally resequenced. Garak had always known that the young doctor was extraordinary, but it had never occurred to him that he was actually superhuman.

Garak’s first reaction is pride. To think that the young, supposedly naive, talkative man managed to hide such a big secret, even from him. Even Garak had underestimated him. The next thought is a selfish one. Bashir will leave. He’ll be taken away or at least forced to resign. Mixed with this is a tinge of resentment that Bashir has maintained silence towards him throughout what is clearly a crisis for the young man. Garak admonishes himself for being unreasonable and selfish.

At least, some of his fears are put to rest as he later gathers that the station will be retaining its CMO. It’s not hard to find information about the case, once it becomes a legal matter of public record when Bashir’s father submits to imprisonment for having arranged the modifications when Bashir was a young child.

—————

Garak’s pulse jumps when the door chime to his quarters rings late that night. It can only be one person and, for a moment, Garak is elated that Bashir is finally coming to him. Bashir looks exhausted and his eyes have the puffy reddened appearance of recent crying.

He doesn’t speak, but he looks beyond Garak in to the room. Garak motions him in and leads him to the couch where they sit side by side.

“You know it’s not the best idea, you coming to my quarters late at night,” Garak intends this to be a light, teasing comment, but Bashir doesn’t respond for a few moments.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Bashir’s face collapses.

Garak places a concerned hand on Bashir’s shoulder, “Shall I get us some tea?” He starts to rise.

“No”, Bashir responds, gently pulling him back to the couch.

Bashir presses his face to Garak’s neck. Garak brings an arm up to comfort him, but Bashir is mouthing and sucking at the ridges, his hand reaching down to paw at Garak’s crotch.

Bashir leans down and lays himself across Garak’s lap. He rolls his hips and makes a needy whine of a sound. After a few moments, Bashir reaches for Garak’s hand and guides it to his buttocks. Garak stares down at Bashir and realizes that he is expected to spank him…like a child. With deepening disgust he discovers that he is responding to the sight and feel of Bashir laid out across him, ass muscles working under the uniform pants. He presses down with the hand that is resting on one cheek, allowing their arousal to press together and Bashir moans encouragement. Garak raises his hand and brings it down flat. It makes a satisfying sound, but Bashir barely responds, so Garak does it once more with much more force, then twice again in the same spot and finally Bashir cries out. Garak has become completely and painfully hard. He shoves aside a rising feeling of shame, forgets about how ridiculous they look and gives himself over to his arousal, hitting Bashir with abandon and enjoying the answering grunts.

Conscious of the sounds echoing in his quarters, Garak orders the computer to resume playback of the instrumental music he had been listening to earlier in the evening.

Garak tugs at Bashir’s uniform pants, pulling the fabric down over narrow hips as Bashir raises them to assist and brings a hand up to free his cock around the waistband. Garak thoroughly reddens him, bringing his hand down over and over and feeling a satisfying heat begin to radiate from the abused flesh against his palm as he runs it along the curve of Bashir’s ass between strikes. Bashir is thrusting his hips with increased urgency. Garak finds something particularly wanton about the strip of reddened bare skin exposed on an otherwise clothed body.

Garak pauses and runs a hand through Bashir’s soft hair. Bashir pulls himself up to his knees and steps down to kneel on the floor. He starts working at the fastenings on Garak’s pants. Garak pushes him backgently.

“Clothes off,” he instructs, and stands up to move in to the other room, retrieving his belt. Returning to the couch, he opens the fastening on his pants to release his cock and resumes his seated position. Bashir, now obediently exposed and sitting on his heels, leans forward and and takes Garak in to his mouth. Garak holds him firmly by the back of his head, guiding his motions and setting a pace, then lets go. Bashir slows and is corrected by a blow from the belt to his hip. Bashir answers with a grunt that resonates pleasurably through Garak’s cock and he speeds up his movements. Garak continues to correct him when necessary.

Garak buries his hand in soft hair again, bringing Bashir’s head in until his cock is completely encased in Bashir’s tight throat. He fucks the warm mouth with slow moving thrusts. Lost in the sensation, he allows Bashir to stroke himself.

Garak is about to climax and more resonating grunts and moans indicate that Bashir is also close. Garak releases Bashir’s head and gently leans him back by his shoulders. Bashir puts a hand behind himself for support. Garak bends down, rising from the couch slightly and grabs Bashir by the base of his testes putting pressure on the soft flesh behind them. The urgency of impending orgasms die down. Both men still. Bashir’s panting slows to deep breaths. Their eyes meet, blue and chestnut in the low light. The room is quiet except for the soft music. Bashir’s eyes close languid, slow. He feels the hand release him and a brief cool press of lips against his. At the withdrawal of pressure, Bashir leans forward after the ghost of the kiss. Instead, a hand cups the back of his head and he opens his eyes to see Garak sitting upright on the couch again as Bashir’s mouth is guided back to his cock. Bashir takes in a sharp breath, allowing it to work back in through his gag reflex.

Garak thrusts in to Bashir’s throat with small movements, curling his hips upward, hands fisting in to Bashir’s hair. Bashir is stroking himself with abandon. Garak climaxes with a loud “Ah”, coming neatly down Bashir’s throat. He allows Bashir to withdrawl his head from his slightly shaking hands just in time to see him pull himself to fruition, spilling over his own hand.

Garak tucks himself away, fastens his pants, and slides to the floor, resting his back against the couch. He pulls Bashir in to his side and holds him.

 _This is what he’s wanted from me,_ Garak tells himself. _a tool for his flagellation. You’re a foolish old man._

But then Bashir stirs, warm against his clothed side. Bashir is holding on to him, gripping him by the sleeve, needing him. Garak runs fingers through Bashir’s hair, runs hands over his back, cradles his head stroking circles on his neck with a thumb, presses lips to that warm forehead,keeping him close.

He is startled when Bashir finally speaks, even though his voice is quiet, “Now you know.”

“And what is it that I know, my dear?”

“Everything. You’ve known me better than anyone else has and now you know that I’m a fraud.”

“I do know you, Doctor,” Garak says softly, lips near Bashir’s ear ”and I believe that you are the best man I have ever met. What does that tell you, if I do indeed know you better than anyone? You are beautiful and kind and, yes, brilliant. You use what gifts you have, through whatever means, to help others, to heal…and you care…you truly care. You saved my life, when I did not want or deserve to be saved. That is who you are and that cannot be genetically manipulated. “ Garak chides himself for having indulged in self pity when Bashir was coming to him in pain. He is honored if he can help relieve that pain, if only for an evening.

Bashir sits quietly, resting against Garak’s side. His shoulder shakes with a silent chuckle. Garak pulls his head back to give him a questioning look.

“This old rhyme keeps coming to me,” Bashir’s voice is thick with fatigue.

“If I were a tailor, I’d make it my pride

The best of all tailors to be ;

If I were a tinker, no tinker beside

Should mend an old kettle like me.”

Garak gathers him closer in to his arms, and Bashir sighs, mouth pressed in to Garak’s neck.

“My _dearest_ ,” Garak whispers before he can stop himself. He can’t see Bashir’s face flush at the term, but he can feel breath against the skin behind his ear as Bashir breathes his name, “Elim.” Bashir can’t see his smile.

They sit quietly for a few minutes. Bashir catches himself nodding off and stirs with a reluctant sigh. Bracing himself against the couch, he stands and silently gathers his clothing. Garak rises to see him out.

“Thank you,” Bashir tells him. Garak doesn’t ask him for what.

Bashir places his hands on either side of Garak’s face, fingers slotted in to jaw ridges, kissing him almost chastely. He doesn’t speak again, but his eyes are bright for the first time in days. As exhausted as he is, he looks as if a weight has been lifted, if only momentarily.

 

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during and after the episode Dr. Bashir, I Presume. 
> 
> Just a couple more chapters left!


	7. what you want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashir tries to help Garak cope in the aftermath of a mission gone wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during and after the episode Empok Nor. 
> 
> I've been taking much longer to update that I had been, but there's only one chapter left!

—————

Garak’s role on the station has been changing. He has been working for the federation to decode Cardassian messages. People have started to treat him as if he were a member of the crew. He is seen frequently at ops, coming and going from Sisko’s office. Bashir feels something like pride and a little relief, knowing that suspicions about the nature of their relationship would be far less dangerous than they once were.

Bashir is spending more time in Garak’s quarters. He stops in to the tailor’s shop when he has occasion to pass it. In public, they talk, share food and banter. Bashir has some familiar thoughts about throwing caution aside and allowing himself to give in to the impulses he has to let his knee rest against Garak’s under a replimat table or to lean in to Garak’s side as they sit together at Quark’s. He suppresses those impulses, remembering the last time he started thinking that way.

Now, it seems he was right not to let his guard drop.

Garak had been asked to join in on a salvage mission to their abandoned sister station Empok Nor in case there were booby traps calibrated to attack non-Cardassian species. Bashir didn’t think to worry about Garak or his other friends on the mission. He is thrown off when he hears of a distress call received from the now stranded team. He is told to expect at least one emergency patient when the rescue shuttle returns. His thoughts jump to Miles, Nog and Elim. Bashir seeks out what information has been reported so far and finds out that there have been fatalities. He learns that Cardassians, under the influence of a psychotropic drug, attacked the team and he is worried when he finds out that Garak is to be brought in as a patient. Bashir goes cold when he finally hears the mission brief from Sisko and is informed that Garak, exposed to the drug, attacked the other members of the team and killed one of them.

Garak arrives with the retrieval team. He has been sedated and is transported to the infirmary to be held in isolation. Bashir is relieved to scan him and find only superficial injuries along with the drug and the sedative in his system, but the relief fades as he watches Garak sleep and wonders what state he’ll be in when he wakes up.

————

“…and how is your patient?” O’Brien is somber. He had given Bashir some brief first hand information about the events of the mission, but no more than Bashir had already received from Sisko.

“He should be alright in a few days”

“He looks so peaceful. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man who attacked us.”

“In a way, he’s not…he wasn’t in control of his actions”

“Can I talk to him?”

“For a minute.”

O’Brien enters the isolated area where Garak has been resting. Bashir glances up through the divider window. The two men seem to be having a friendly enough conversation, considering Garak had barely spoken since he had woken up. O’Brien emerges and Bashir gives him a questioning look.

“He wants me to speak to Amaro’s wife…..widow…for him.”

Bashir winces. He hadn’t known Amaro, didn’t realize that he was married.

“There’s going to be an inquest?” Bashir asks.

“There will be, yeah.” They both peer in at Garak, who is lying quietly with his eyes closed again. “I’ve told him I’ll speak on his behalf. He’ll be okay.” Miles gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder on his way out.

Bashir orders observation for the next two days. Garak sleeps through most of the day and seems far away when he is awake. Bashir spends some time further analyzing the substance that he had detected in Garak’s system. He knew enough about it to neutralize it, but he decides to arm himself with more information about the effects in case Garak needs further defense for his actions.

Bashir asks his night shift staff to alert him if there are any changes, leaving reluctantly. He spends a restless night in his quarters. He knows he isn’t going to sleep right away and picks up the PADD by his bed. He had been reading a translation of Don Quixote that was supposed to be especially well executed. He had suggested it to Garak the week before, curious to hear his companion’s take on the plot. He had known Garak would not miss the bait, a tale about duty that is a delusion, about a man who stringently adheres to a moral code at odds with the times and reality he lives in. Bashir’s eyes pass over the screen, but he doesn’t absorb the dense text. His habit of noting points and mentally rehearsing arguments that he will go over with Garak later makes it impossible for the book to provide a distraction.

Bashir finally sleeps for a few hours and gets to the infirmary early in the morning to check on his patient. Garak appears to be sleeping. Bashir silently scans him more thoroughly than is necessary and determines that the physical injuries have healed to his satisfaction. The drug is still present in Garak’s system, but has been excreted at an appropriate rate. Garak’s eyes open slightly as Bashir moves around him. He closes them immediately with an irritated sigh and Bashir, taking the hint, leaves him alone.

After a few hours of busying himself he can take it no longer. He enters the room again and pulls a chair up near the bed. Garak tries to feign continued sleep, but Bashir makes no effort to be quiet, even unnecessarily jostling his patient as he adjusts sensors, making sure Garak is awake and responsive. He wants to place his hand over Garak’s, to say something reassuring, but Garak hasn’t said a word to him and they are in full view of the rest of the infirmary.

“Garak,” he keeps his voice soft.

Garak grunts an acknowledgment, opening his eyes and keeping them fixed on the ceiling.

“The levels of the drug in your system have decreased considerably. How are you feeling?”

Garak ignores the question. “Does that mean I can leave?”

“I’d like to keep you under observation for a while longer. If the levels continue to drop at this rate, you can probably be released to your quarters before the end of the day.” Bashir leans in, bringing their heads close. “You need to talk to me, though.”

“An order from my physician?” Garak’s disdainful tone makes Bashir wince.

“I just need to evaluate your mental state. It’s been 6 hours since your last dose of the sedative. Are you feeling alert?”

Another irritated sigh, “Yes, _Doctor_.”

“Okay,” Bashir places a hand on Garak’s forearm. He feels Garak pull away feebly and removes his hand.

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything or if you start feeling anything unusual. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

\----

Garak is released shortly before Bashir goes off shift. When Bashir is free he immediately heads for Garak’s quarters.

Garak is slow to answer the chime. He still looks exhausted despite having slept for most of the previous 52 hours.

Bashir enters the quarters without an invitation. He gently puts his arms around Garak’s neck and tries to make eye contact.

“It wasn’t your fault. That wasn’t you.”

“That was me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” Garak pulls Bashir’s arms away and moves back.

“Garak, don’t.”

“You should go. I can’t give you what you want tonight.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I want.” He tries to make it a challenge, but Garak only looks tired.

Bashir softens his tone, “Can I just stay? I’m concerned for you.” He replaces his arms and Garak passively accepts a kiss ”Please.”

Garak gives Bashir’s shoulder a squeeze and gently pulls himself out of the embrace, but he doesn’t say no, so Bashir follows him in to the bedroom and waits seated on the bed in the low light while Garak enters the bathroom and engages the sonic shower.

Garak hasn’t bothered to cover himself when he emerges after a minute and Bashir watches him walk across the room to bed. His normal stiff upright posture is absent. Instead of the power usually conveyed by his thick frame, he looks soft and vulnerable, his shoulders hunched and his belly protruding. Bashir does not normally think about how much older Garak is, but he is very conscious of it now.

Bashir removes his own clothing and pulls the blanket over both of them as Garak lies down. Bashir runs his hands across Garak’s chest, absently exploring the different textures of scales and softer skin.Garak doesn’t respond for a while, but finally turns his head and raises his hand to stroke his thumb across Bashir’s cheek and then permits another kiss. Bashir is pressed up against the flank of the larger man and is self-conscious as he feels himself grow hard against Garak’s hip. He closes his eyes and tucks himself in to Garak’s side, determined to remain still, but he feels a hand run up his neck to cup the back of his head. Garak is turning to him bringing their lips together, softly at first and then deepening with the beginning of an answering arousal pressing against Bashir’s.

Bashir gently pushes Garak on to his back, allowing the blanket to slip away. He straddles Garak’s hips, leaning down to kiss him as he hooks his calves around Garak’s thighs. Bashir finds a container of oil on the night stand from one of their previous encounters. There’s only a small remnant of it left and Bashir scoops what he can on to his fingers, brushing them against the tip of Garak’s ridged member, then stroking his thumb along one side and the other as it grows fully erect. Garak hums appreciatively. Bashir continues this attention with one hand while reaching behind to prepare himself with the other.

Garak calls quietly for the lights. Bashir pauses and watches Garak evaluate him, eyes exploring his face and then tracing down his body. Bashir resumes his work, pressing at his own opening with his finger, and is encouraged by Garak’s response. Garak watches him intently for a minute before looking up to his face again.

Bashir maintains eye contact as he raises his hips, positioning himself over Garak and then slowly lowering until he has completely engulfed Garak’s cock. Garak grips Bashir’s hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles across soft skin. Bashir lies down, allowing Garak to wrap his arms around him. Their bodies still for a few moments while their lips find each other, soft and unhurried. Bashir moves slightly, allowing his own cock to be teased by brushing against Garak’s stomach.

Garak lets his eyes slip close, lost in sensation, and sees the face of a Starfleet officer, dead by his hand just days before. He thinks of the man’s widow lying in bed by herself tonight and his stomach twists with guilt. He opens his eyes and focuses on Bashir again, taking in the soft lines of his face.

Bashir sits upright, pushing Garak deeper inside. Garak exhales sharply at the sensation. Bashir’s head leans back and his eyes close as he starts to stroke himself with his still slick hand.It is probably the most beautiful thing that Garak has ever seen.

Garak places both hands on Bashir’s hips and begins using gentle pressure to set a rhythm, starting to grind his own hips upwards. Bashir’s face constricts with pleasure and Garak is almost overcome by the site.

“You’re so…so…” Garak’s voice breaks and he squeezes his eyes shut groaning with pleasure.

Bashir’s movements become more fevered and his soft exhalations and sighs become louder incoherent noises. Garak is holding him tightly, suspended above his hips as he thrusts, driving up in to him over and over again. He hears a gasp and a strangled sound from Bashir before he feels the warmth of semen stringing across his lower belly. Garak pulls Bashir down hard, releasing in to him, rolling his hips to milk the last of his orgasm.

Both men are still. Garak is looking at Bashir, mouth slack. He looks more dazed than tired now.

Bashir lowers himself against Garak’s chest, mouth hovering over jaw ridges. For several minutes they lie together, just breathing. 

Bashir extracts himself, pushing upright to walk to the bathroom and retrieve a washcloth. He does a cursory job of cleaning them both and pulls the blanket up to cover them, tucking himself back in to Garak’s side.

He sees that Garak can barely keep his eyes open and calls for lowered lights.

“Goodnight, Elim.” Bashir’s breathing deepens and evens out almost immediately.

Garak is surprised to find himself starting to drift in to an easy sleep. His bed is warm enough to be comfortable for the first time in years. For the first time in so long that he had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold.

As he drops off, he slurs “Goodnight, my…..Julian.”

\------


	8. opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Cashmere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is almost more of an epilogue - a series of vignettes -   
> I ended up taking a lot longer with updates than I intended. I really appreciate the support I've gotten and that people have kept reading - thank you!

 

\------

Bashir is slightly disoriented when he wakes up. After a few moments, he remembers where he is and becomes aware of Garak curled against his back. He stirs and finds that Garak is awake. Garak snakes an arm around him and Bashir covers it with his own, encouraging Garak to tighten his hold. Bashir feels lips brush the back of his neck and he hums suggestively in response.

“Don’t you need to be in the infirmary this morning?” Garak asks, giving no indication that he intends to loosen his grip.

“You’re right. we’d better make it quick.”

Afterwards, Bashir cleans up and helps himself to a pastry from Garak’s replicator. He smiles at Garak’s disapproving look as he chews and swallows too quickly while pulling on his uniform. He leaves, headed straight for the infirmary.

—————

Bashir moves through the Defiant corridor rapidly. Although it is very early in the morning, the ship is prepared for combat and does not adhere to regular hours as the station does. He hopes to make it to the ship’s small infirmary without encountering any of the crew.

While it was happening, Bashir couldn’t get enough of Garak’s teeth baring down on his skin, the hands holding him fast while he was pounded against the side of a bunk in a rare few minutes of privacy. Now, he is irritated. There is no dermal regenerator hidden away here and, while his uniform can cover most of the damage, the bite mark on his neck is quite visible.

With relief he reaches the infirmary doors and steps through.

“Julian! Getting an early start?”

Bashir winces and tries to angle his injured neck away from Jadzia, but he quickly realizes that this would only draw more attention to the mark. And now he sees that it’s too late as she is openly eying it, eyebrow raised.

“Or are you the patient?” She smirks while she pulls open a drawer and takes out a regenerator.

Bashir sighs and crosses to her, sitting on a bed and letting her inspect the damage while she runs the device over his skin. “What are you doing here?” He asks her.

“Just making use of a computer interface where it’s quiet,” she replies, “It’s clear what you’re doing here. Are you going to fill in the blanks?” She is smiling broadly, enjoying herself. “Or do I have to guess?”

Bashir tries to ignore her.

“Come _on_ , Julian, it’s not as if you haven’t done this for me more than once since I started dating Worf…spill.”

“Alright, obviously we got a little carried away.”

“And who is the other half of this we?”

Bashir is not making eye contact.

“Come _on_. I tell you everything.”

“Which is _really_ not necessary.”

Jadzia chuckles, “Just about everyone does impulsive things during war time. I won’t judge. Who’s tooth marks am I looking at?”

“That would be” Bashir sighs, “…the tailor.”

“Garak? Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. Between the way I’ve always seen him looking at you and the amount of time you two spend together.” Jadzia finishes with the regenerator and hops up to sit on the bed next to Bashir. “And how long has this been going on?”

Bashir pauses, lips pursed, and looks up at Jadzia before his mouth twitches in to a half smile. “Just over two years, actually….on and off,” he adds quietly.

He takes some puckish pleasure in the widening of her eyes. She is speechless for several seconds. “Two… _years_?!”

“I thought you weren’t surprised.” Julian is grinning openly now.

“I’m not surprised that it happened. I’m surprised that you…YOU…kept something like this to yourself for so long.” She gives him an evaluating look a before tilting her head in acknowledgment, “Then again, I guess we’ve learned that you have your secrets.”

She notices Bashir’s smile fall slightly and she bumps him playfully with her shoulder, “So, this is more that just a little war time impulse. Is it serious? Now that I’m thinking about it, I haven’t seen you on a date or heard you go on about a woman in a long time. I should have known something was up. Are you two…what? Together?”

“It’s…complex.”

Jadzia raises her palms to Bashir, dismissing the subject. “Okay. So, “ She grinned conspiratorially and gives his healed neck a glance, “What’s it like?”

“ _Jad_ -zia,” Bashir admonished.

Later, as he is returning to his bunk to get a few hours sleep, he reflects that it actually was nice to talk to someone about Garak. His step falters when it occurs to him that he hadn’t asked Jadzia to keep his confidence. While he has no doubt she would honor his wishes if he made them known, she does enjoy a good bit of gossip.

———

Bashir turns his head slightly to avoid hitting his chin as it is shoved down to the table in his quarters. A hand fists in to his hair painfully. He braces himself against the table and attempts to push himself upright. The hand leaves his head and his arms are captured roughly, wrists slammed down on the surface in front of him. The table edge digs in to him as he is pinned by Garak’s body. His wrists are held fast by one of Garak’s hands as his uniform pants are jerked down roughly. When he feels something cold and hard press against his entrance he makes an attempt to twist his hands from the strong grip and is rewarded with a backhand across the face. He is fucked against the table with enough force to cause skin to break where angry bruises will later form over his hip bones.

Garak will kiss each of these bruises in turn, moving back and forth between the two repeatedly until he sees Bashir start to respond and he settles his head in the middle to take Bashir in to his mouth, eventually bringing him to climax for the second time that evening, sighing and squirming, hands grasping at Garak’s hair.

———

Garak and Bashir wind their way through the busy replimat holding their trays, rushing slightly to find a spot after spending too much of their available lunch time waiting for a turn at the replicator. Bashir thinks for a moment that the Bajoran approaching them is a patient with a question as he so deliberately angles towards them. The man makes eye contact before pointedly bumping in to Bashir’s tray causing the contents to spill over his uniform and on to the floor.

“My apologies,” the man says as he continues walking past, barely slowing his pace to give Garak a hostile look.

———

Garak grabs a fistful of Bashir’s uniform jacket, shoving him in to a sitting position on the counter in his infirmary office. He holds Bashir’s hands above his head, inserting a leg between Bashir’s knees and prodding them open. Bashir, achingly hard and desperate for contact against his groin, thrusts his hips forward violently. A cloth covering the counter surface slips, propelling Bashir forward. He shoots off of the counter, grabbing at Garak’s tunic for purchase and only succeeding in pulling Garak to the floor with him along with a clattering assortment of medical instruments. Bashir tries to untangle himself from Garak, feeling a little embarrassed and concerned that he may have injured him with a stray elbow on the way down. They make eye contact and Garak starts to chuckle. They manage to sit upright, side by side, and Garak is now heartily laughing. Bashir can’t help but join in. The door opens and Jabara looks in, drawnby the crash she’d heard, her concerned expression quickly replaced by bemusement at the site.

“Everything alright in here?” She asks.

Bashir tries to catch his breath to respond, but dissolves into another fit of laughter which Garak also succumbs to. Jabara shakes her head, giving them a puzzled smile as she retreats to the infirmary.

——

Bashir presents the plate to Garak, laying it out carefully on the table in his quarters. It is a human dish that he had spent some time fiddling with the replicator to get just so. He was quite pleased with the resulting taste which he had sampled earlier in the day and with the presentation which he had fussed over a bit. He retrieves a second plate for himself and sits across from Garak watching him expectantly.

Garak pulls his napkin from the table, unfurling it with a flourish and tucking it in to his collar. He takes a bite of the entrée and makes a high pitched “Hm” of approval.

W _hat a ridiculous man._ Bashir thinks.

After a moment, Garak looks up at him, “And what is it you’re so amused by?”

Bashir realizes that he’s been sitting with his elbows on the table, head resting on domed fingers, staring at his dinner companion and smiling idiotically.

“Nothing,” He replies, straightening up. Garak shrugs and returns to inspecting his dinner.

”Actually,” Bashir takes a deep breath and dives in. ”It’s just that I love you. I’m in love with you.” Garak’s expression is unchanged other than a slight raise of an eye ridge. Unable to tolerate the few seconds of silence, Bashir adds, “it’s okay, if you don’t feel the same way, it’s just that…”

“My _dear_ Doctor,” Garak interjects, in a tone that might as well have been discussing the weather on Bajor, “I’ve loved you since the day we met.” Garak takes another bite of his dinner. “This is actually quite good.”

Julian smiles incredulously, shakes his head and starts eating his own meal, “yeah, I thought you’d enjoy it.”

——

Garak stands behind Bashir, pushing in to him with long, smooth strokes. He embraces Bashir across the chest with one arm, the other reaching down to access Bashir’s cock. Bashir strains to turn his head to get a look at Garak and finds himself being kissed ravenously. Garak pulls his head back and their eyes meet. Bashir sees the intensity growing in Garak’s face as he starts to fall over the edge of his climax, taking Bashir along with him.

——

With the escalating Dominion conflict, things that seemed important even a few months ago are trivial now. Bashir is no longer concerned about who might see him leaving Garak’s quarters in the morning or with how far apart their chairs sit during lunch in the replimat. There may be talk about them on the station, but Bashir does not hear it. He may also notice that some of his Bajoran patients now prefer to be treated by other staff members, but it doesn’t concern him. O’Brien seems to be too busy to meet up for darts or a holodeck session these days. That does hurt a little.

Bashir doesn’t let it affect him. Overall, he feels much better now that he is no longer trying to hide his relationship. He has spent enough of his life holding secrets. Being open suits him.

Residents of the station, as always, see the two of them sharing meals together frequently. They may see Bashir walking side by side with Garak, guided by a hand on his lower back.They might see Garak affectionately run his hand through Bashir’s hair without seeing the forced neutral look on Bashir’s face as that hand grabs and twists just enough to hurt. They may even see the two of them share a kiss in a darkened corner. What they would not see is Garak’s hand sliding up Bashir’s chest between them, to come to rest at his throat, thumb pressing in to the base with a threat and promise.

——

Garak is pleased to see Bashir appear unexpectedly at his shop door.

“Did we have lunch plans, my dearest?”

“No, “ Bashir pauses before adding, “I don’t have to be back at the infirmary for an hour.”

Garak knows the look he is receiving.

“In that case.” Garak closes the shop as soon as the single browsing customer wanders out.

He inclines his head toward a dressing room. “Strip and kneel.”

Neither of them bother to close the curtain, as the interior of the dressing room can’t be seen through the shop front. Garak retrieves a belt from the rear of the shop. He pauses next to his work table. He can see that Bashir is ready for him. Nude, kneeling and half hard. On impulse, Garak sifts through the cloth on the table, selecting a narrow strip to use as a makeshift blindfold.

He looks up to find Bashir looking back at him. It’s only for a moment, before Bashir lowers his eyes to wait obediently, but Garak is taken aback by the soft smile and frank affection on the young man’s face. It’s quite certainly the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen.

\-----


End file.
